A Study in Stamens
by sparklyunicornsofdoom
Summary: John and Sherlock are houseplants and Mrs. Hudson is the old dear who introduces them to each other. Written as an experiment and by no means meant to be taken seriously.
1. Chapter 1

AN: I originally wanted to make John a bluebell, since they're such a quintessentially British flower, but the gladiolus just fits him so perfectly, so I chose that instead. It means "little sword" in Latin, which I feel is appropriate, and it symbolises moral fiber, strength of character and faithfulness. It can also represent infatuation and exasperation, two words that sum up John's relationship with Sherlock admirably.

Warnings: Serious response to a cracky idea, cross-pollination, mentions of hypothetical Mpreg (sort of), conspicuous lack of anything resembling a beta, not to be taken seriously

Reposted with improvements/minor errors fixed

* * *

John jerked awake, his petals unfolding in sharp, startled surprise. Shadow images from his nightmare played behind his eyes- the crawling, seething mass of green bodies; terror so thick it was like a black, coiling mass. John slowed his respiration, absorbing large gulps of oxygen through his stomata and expelling carbon dioxide.

It was dark in the nursery. The proprietor had gone home to his wife in the afternoon, packing the portable shelves of plants into the cool, confined shop. The other plants slumbered in the milky darkness, their flowers furled tightly in sleep. Dawn was creeping nearer, and soon they would wake, stretching their fronds towards the weak London sun.

John thought about the simplicity of his life before the attack that had left him shaken and wounded. Before being given to the nursery as a cutting, John had been the favourite plant of a botanist. Living in a professional environment was a fantastic oportunity for a young person to learn about the world, which very view plants experienced much of. He'd learnt billiant, thrilling things about plant biology and diseases.

When Doctor Stamford had retired, he'd replanted John in his garden in Turnham Green. John'd spent two or three days chatting up the dahlias and watching the bees zigzag lazily past, feeling as if he'd been forced into early retirement.

Then Doctor Stamford had snipped off a section of his roots and a couple of his leaves, and donated them to the community nursery as a gesture of goodwill. The pain and shock of being cut in two left him vulnerable, and he succumbed to an infestation of aphids that eventually took his life.

Against all odds, a small part of him survived. No more than a cluster of roots and leaves, he'd clung fiercely to life as careful hands had embalmed him in blessedly cool soil. He'd spent the first few, tentative days of renewed existence speculating about his future.

John had now been at the nursery for almost two weeks, recuperating and examining his options. He didn't expect to be bought. John was well aware of his own failings- his lack of beautiful and abundant flowers and his smallness. People usually wanted large, showy flowers, like roses and lillies. At best, John could hope to be planted in the proprietor's own garden. His wife was partial to red flowers, and he sometimes gifted her with unwanted ones from the nursery.

John watched the pale arc of the moon dip beneath a shimmery fluff of cloud. The sky began to brighten, watery splashes of colour blooming across the satiny blackness. By seven o'clock, the sky was a pale, cautiously cheerful blue.

John heard the crisp slap of shoes on concrete and the warm buzz of voices. Two people- the proprietor and an older woman, most likely a customer. John listened for the familiar click of the key in the lock and the protesting creak of the door.

The proprietor appeared in the doorway, a bear of a young man in a duffel coat and a beanie.

"It's so nice of you to do this, Noel." An elderly woman came into view, clutching a gardening magazine and smiling benignly at the propreitor.

"It's no problem at all, Mrs. Hudson," said Noel cheerfully. "What plant did you say you were looking for?"

"Oh, I'm not entirely sure. Something low maintenance, I suppose, that doesn't need a lot of sunlight. It's a house warming present for my new tenants, you see."

Noel smiled indulgently. "Right you are, Mrs. Hudson. If you'll come this way, I'll show you some our less tempreramental ones."

Noel led the old lady around the shop, proffering various plants for her perusal.

"No, no, that's not quite it, I'm afraid," she quavered, after neither tulips, irises, or gardinias had yielded much satisfaction.

Noel was unperturbed. "Well, maybe if we narrowed it down a bit. Were you looking for a particular species? Or we could go by colour."

"I suppose I'd like something sunny, to brighten up the flat a bit."

"Sunny. We can work with sunny. How about sunflowers?"

The little old lady examined the bright yellow flowers and shook her head regretfully. "No, they're not quite right, I'm afraid." John watched her shuffle between the shelves, one hand resting lightly on the mesh. To his surprise, she stopped before his shelf and peered at him, looking thoughtful. "What about this one?"

"Gladiolus? Interesting choice. They're sturdy plants, but they do better in warmer climates."

"I think I'll take this one."

John hardly knew what to think. He'd never planned for this eventuality. He could feel other plants bristling with resentment.

Noel carefully scooped John up and put him on the counter, where he took the chance to have a look around. The shop door was open, wafting billows of life-giving sunlight through the cramped space. Freedom and the prospect of adventure beckoned. He waited impatiently as the transaction was completed, eager to be out of the dreadful nursery and in the sun again.

Finally, John was tucked into the crook of an arm and carried out into the glorious sunlight. He stretched his petals towards the giant gold disk, pores dilating to welcome the warmth. He watched the passing scenery and the bustling humdrum of London. He rarely had the chance to see it, despite having lived there his whole life. It was frightening, but also exhilarating, and he felt more alive than he'd been since his days in the surgery.

Their destination turned out to be a handsom Victorian residence with a large metal 221B on the front door. The old lady carefully set John on the ground to rummage in her handbag for the key, leaving John to observe the street at his leisure.

The door was opened, and John was picked up again and hugged close to warm-blooded skin. Mrs. Hudson carried him up the stairs, the rocking motion of her walk making anxiety buzz vaguely in the pit of his stomach. John counted the stairs to take his mind off it. Seventeen, exactly- John wondered if the architect had planned it that way, or if the number had just happened to fit his specifications.

Mrs. Hudson rapped lightly on the door at the top of the stairs, and a man opened it. He was thin and pale and drawn-looking, and he wore an expression of vague irritation.

"Mrs. Hudson. What can I do for you?"

"I brought you a present. I thought the flat could do with a bit of cheering up."

"It's not a depressive, Mrs. Hudson," said the man dismissively.

"Try to be civil," said a voice from somewhere in the recesses of the apartment. "You could do with acting a bit more like a human being once in a while." Another man shuffled into view. This one was short and comfortable looking, but John sensed a lethal, carefully hidden edge to him. He reached out and gently took John from Mrs. Hudson's hands. "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. It's lovely. Would you like to come in?"

"Thank you, dear. I'll only stay a moment. Oh, but what's this?" She peered myopically at something on the windowsill. "You have a plant already? Daffodils, how beautiful!"

"It's a narcissus," said the pale man impatiently. "It's part of an experiment."

John was set carefully down on the sill next to the other plant and they eyed each other cautiously. The other plant was bright and showy, but his leaves were drooping in what looked like apathy and boredom rather than thirst. John could tell he was curious, but he was obviously trying to hide it.

"Hello," John said politely, "I'm John. Nice too meet you."

"Sherlock," said the other plant blandly.

"So, what is it you do?" John asked, trying to make conversation.

Sherlock scoffed. "Don't waste my time. I'm not even going to answer that, for the very simple reason that I am a bloody plant, and we don't do anything, except pollinate other plants and make more wretched creatures who continue the whole interminable cycle until they die of boredom. Presumably you asked because you felt it was polite, because of ridiculous social niceties that, frankly, I have no interest in. I deduced your life history the moment you walked through the door, so there's no point anyway."

"I see," John said mildly. "You really know everything about me, just from looking at me?"

"Yes," said Sherlock curtly.

"Well, go on, then," John said lightly.

"You really want to hear?"

John felt modestly smug at having caught the arrogant plant by surprise.

"Sure. It'll pass the time."

Sherlock seemed to steel himself, his flowers crinkling in concentration. "You're not a young plant- you've been around for half a decade, during which time you lived indoors in an environment which you found stimulating, probably a scientist's laboratory going by the size and shape of your flowers and your obvious interest in biology. You've fathered several children, none of which you know about, but you've never been fertilised yourself. Recently you suffered some kind of trauma, most likely physical, and you have pain in one of your stems, but it's psychosomatic. You also have nightmares. I think that's enough to be going on with."

Sherlock said all of this rapidly and breathlessly, his petals bright with excitement and adrenaline.

"Brilliant," John chortled.

"I-really?" There was that oddly vulnerable tilt of the leaves again.

"Yeah. That was amazing. How did you know all of that?"

Sherlock smiled, and John thought he could detect a pleased flush around the edges of his petals. "Simple deduction. The trauma is easy, you favour one of your stems. I know you were an indoor plant because your flowers are quite small. I know you belonged to a scientist because when you walked into the flat, you were instantly drawn to the container of thumbs on the kitchen table. Any plant not exposed to that sort of thing on a regular basis would be repulsed, but you were intrigued. I know you haven't been fertilised because you show no signs of depression or separation anxiety. The nightmares were obvious, clear signs of sleep deprivation and cell tension."

"Proper genius."

"That's not what people usually say."

"What do people usually say?"

Sherlock's leaves curled upward in a smile. "Piss off."

John emitted a startled giggle. "Well, I'm not people."

"No," Sherlock said, smiling. "I don't believe you are."

-End

Awesome, someone shares my whacky sense of humour. Expect new updates in future.


	2. Chapter 2

AN: This is crack, and the definition of crack is that it fails on every level to make any kind of sense. Please, please don't attempt to place this in any kind of rational universe. Objections to characterisation are more than welcome, however. Flame loudly and often, but bring a fire extinguisher because I do bite back.

* * *

Two weeks after their introduction, Sherlock and John had mostly settled into their lives as cohabitants of the Baker Street window sill. John quietly went about his business, and Sherlock- rather loudly- went about his. They were still fleshing out the mechanics of their friendship, but they'd worked up quite a good rapport.

John was reading the paper that had been flung to the floor in one of the pale man's flights of hustrionics. He liked to keep abreast of human news. There had been a spate of what the police were calling "serial suicides." A string of unconnected suicides within a week? That was very suspicious.

"Sherlock, come and have a look at this," John said. "It's right up your alley."

"Busy, John," Sherlock muttered.

John turned around to look at what Sherlock was doing. The plant was peering attentively at what looked like- yes. Those were flies.

"Sherlock, why are there suddenly a lot more dead flies on the sill?" John asked suspiciously.

"Experiment," Sherlock said with relish, poking a dead fly with one long stem.

"Jesus," John muttered. "Sherlock, that's horrid. You can't poison insects just so you can experiment on them."

"Why not? Flies are my natural enemy. If I didn't kill them, they'd kill me. Besides, it's not my fault they tried to take a bite out of me."

John glanced at the poor little dead things littering the sill around Sherlock's pot. "Alright, fine. Just don't kill the bees, okay? Poor things are only trying to do their jobs."

"Bees? Why would I kill bees? Wonderful creatures."

After ten minutes of careful study, Sherlock wrapped up his experiment and stretched his long stems. "I'm bored," he said loudly.

"Why don't you read the newspaper? There's an interesting case going on about serial suicides."

"Human crime. Dull. It's not suicide, anyway, don't be daft. It's murder."

"Really? How do you know?"

"Victims had no relation to each other, came from different parts of London, and died miles from their houses. Most people like to die at home, they feel safer there. Anyway, it's all incredibly trite."

John sighed. "Okay, if you say so."

Later on, the flat's human occupants showed up briefly and there was some fuss about drugs and suitcases that John listened to with interest. Apparently, the pale man was a detective and he was helping the police with the suicides. Mrs. Hudson came up and made conversation about her potted plants, which seemed to be dying off.

Sherlock perked up at this. "John, did you hear that? Mrs. Hudson's plants are dying!"

"Sherlock, I hardly think that's anything to get excited about."

"No, no, John, don't be slow. It's a case!"

"A ca- really? You're interested in mysterious plant deaths, but not human ones?"

"Of course! Plants I can actually do something about! Come on, John, we have to get down to 221A!"

"Get down? What on earth do you mean? It's a whole floor away, and we're not vines!"

"There's a lift, hardly used, installed in the 80s by the overweight landlord. The door's still open. If we can sneak past the detectives, we can highjack the tea trolley, push it through the door when they're not looking, climb up and press the button, push the trolley into the lift, press the button again, get out at the ground floor, and- and- sneak into Mrs. Hudson's flat. Somehow."

"Sherlock, we're plants. We can't walk."

"Course we can. You have stems, don't you? Come on! We're waisting time!"

"Okay, I'm with you. Just one thing, though. How are we going to get down from this windowsill?"

"I-oh. Um..."

John suddenly caught sight of a large, furred _thing _sneaking among the shadows towards them. He was instantly on high alert.

"Sherlock," he murmured. "There's a cat approaching us."

"Oh, that's just one of Mycroft's minions. He works for the British National Confederate of Felines, but he sends other people to do his dirty work. He spends most of his time at his exclusive club, eating horrendous amounts of tinned tuna and arranging assasinations."

The cat sauntered towards them and jumped up onto the sill. She was pretty, with dark eyes and slender limbs. She carefully picked Sherlock up in her mouth and deposited him gently on her back, then reached down to do the same for John.

"Mycroft likes to think I can't be trusted, so he sends a cat every so often to give me a lift," said Sherlock as they clung to the cat's fur, trying not to spill any soil. Well, at least John tried. Sherlock seemed spitefully amused by the idea of Mycroft's employee having to lick dirt out of her fur.

221A was larger than 221B, and decorated in whites and pale greens. Mrs. Hudson had upwards of ten flowering plants of varying species. The most recently dead plant was sitting on the kitchen table, ringed with yellow tape. Sitting on the table and the floor variously were two rats and a large grey cat.

"Sherlock," said the grey cat tightly. "Come and have a look at the body."

The female cat jumped onto the table, scattering the two rats and making them chitter irritably. "So sorry," she said smoothly as John and Sherlock slid from her back.

"Where are the other bodies?"

"Mrs. Hudson got to them before we could. And before you ask, no, this one hasn't been tampered with. As far as we can tell, they were all healthy plants. This is the fourth death so far."

Sherlock bent his stems to examine the body, beckoning for John to do the same. "What do you think, John?"

"Hang on!" Said one of the rats indignantly, scrambling back onto the table. "He's a civilian! You can't bring him here!"

"John is my assistant. I need him."

"But you can't-"

"Donnovan, leave it alone," said the grey cat irritably.

The rat huffed, but made no further comment.

"John?"

John bent to examine the plant, gently lifting a leaf to look at its underside, poking around in the soil.

"Hmm," John said. "Asphyxiation, I'd say. Dead a couple of hours."

"Good."

Sherlock bent over the plant, prodding and testing with deft efficiency. "She's lived here most of her life, given to Mrs. Hudson by a neighbour. She didn't die naturally- there are no signs of disease- but she didn't put up a fight. So, the murderer somehow got her to comply."

"How do you know that?"

"She's healthy and gets a lot of light, she's not scrawny or malnourished like nursery plants usually are. # The only begonias of this exact species and colour in London belong to Mrs. Turner, so she must have gifted the victim to Mrs. Hudson. There's no displaced soil or broken stems, so it's obvious she cooperated. Simple."

"Fantastic."

"You know you do that out loud."

"Sorry, I'll stop."

"No, it's- fine. Wait a minute, what's this?"

Sherlock touched a small green nub at the end of one of the victim's stems. "There should be a flower here. It hasn't been cut off, it's been pulled off. Why would the murderer do that? Unless it wasn't him- ohhhhhhhh!" Sherlock clapped his leaves in delighted surprise. "Oh, she was clever, this one."

"What do you mean?"

"A flower, only a small thing, but brightly coloured, obviously identifiable as a begonia. She planted it on him."

"But that still doesn't tell us much about the murderer," Lestrade pointed out.

"Oh, I wouldn't say that. Help me up to the window."

Lestrade gave Sherlock a lift so he could scrutinise the kitchen window closely. "Excellent. People hardly ever dust their windowsills. You're looking for a monkey, a smallish one, almost certainly a Bolivian squirrel monkey going by the size and shape of the feet and hands."

"A monkey? In Marylebone?"

"Yes, of course. Most likely he escaped from the zoo- or maybe a travelling circus, considering the fact that he knew how to open a locked window. Send some officers to the zoo to see if he's turned up, and find out if there are any travelling circuses in the area. I'll send my network ou to have a look around. John and I'll stay here tonight in case he comes back. Post some officers at strategic points along the street- he might decide to widen his kill zone."

"Right. Everybody out, do as he says!"

John watched the police officers carefully remove the tape from around the crime scene.

"John. Can I talk to you for a moment?" said Donovan.

"Okay."

She pushed him into a corner away from Sherlock, who watched them go disinterestedly.

"Don't trust that guy. He's a psychopath."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean he gets off on it. The crime, the murder- it's like an aphrodesiac to him. Just keep your wits about you, yeah? There's something not right about him."

"Okay, I'll keep that in mind," John said, trying to be polite. She did seem to mean well.

"Interesting conversation?" Sherlock asked casually when Donnovan had left.

"Not really," said John lightly. "What did you mean when you said you had a network?"

Sherlock smiled, brought two leaves to one of his flowers and blew.

There was a low buzz, and a fat yellow bee wandered in through the window. Sherlock spoke to it, in a pattern of strange vibrations that made no sense to John. It turned and left, looking determined.

"Bees," John said slowly.

"They're my eyes and ears in London. They should get back to me before the police do."

"Why send the police off to look for him, then?"

"There's nothing wrong with covering all your bases. Anyway, it gives them something to do."

"You're terrible."

They settled in to wait for the killer.

#I appologise to anyone who owns a nursery. This is complete crap and not actually a legitimate deduction someone could make.


End file.
